Insomnia
by deformography
Summary: -"And the worst part is that you can't even claim to have killed yourself. You’ll never have that privilege." The bad things always happen in the dark.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaim:** I don't own; I borrow with the odd exception.  
**Author's Note:** I warn you that this is not for the faint of heart and is rated M for a reason. It deals with a lot of heavy subject matter. There are implications that you may or may not pick up on. Read critically and with a open mind—I cannot stress that enough. This is a little something I pulled out of my ass and whipped up in something like an hour with the help of my good friend Kris. Dallas is afraid of the dark, and he has damn good reason. Flames are more than welcome. Written for the November Rumble over at WSOTT.

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**Insomnia**  
One| Raw

No sleep, no rest. Cigarette to lips and you know why. All these stupid thoughts bumping against the backs of your eyelids. Things that make you shiver, inhale too deep and cough. Warm breath against cold air, you know why you're so afraid of sleep—or is sleep afraid of you? Your mind is a rotten place, host to all the world's corruption, infectious in the way that it keeps on infecting. Mold's spread over your insides, killed them and turned them black. Dead, but you're still breathing.

Corruption—you wear it like a badge. Hold your head too high because you are just too filthy. And you have people to thank for that. The ones who made you rot. It's your fault because you let them in—you let them leave their marks and take everything you thought had like you were just something to be used. Not anymore, though. Now, you're untouchable because you know the difference between the hands that hurt and the ones that just don't care enough to. The ones that will stain you—smear your soul and watch as you self-destruct. And the worst part is that you can't even claim to have killed yourself. You'll never have that privilege.

It's not just people that have killed you. It's places, too. Nights spent in shady alleys with shady people on the shady side of the city. If you were lucky, you got to spend the night in some pervert's bed after he cut the lights and told you not to scream. Never could see the guy your dad had whored you out to for the night. His hands on your body, and you knew that doing anything other than what he wanted would kill you. Slit your throat and leave you there because they didn't have time for difficult little shits like you. They were just out to get their dick sucked, same as everyone else. And who's to say that you didn't pick up anything useful, anyways? A few tricks here and there never hurt anybody. At least you know you can use your mouth. You can thank New York for that.

But like that's ever gotten you far, right? Dad's hand has left more bruises than you can count, and even if you could, you wouldn't. Or would you? Poke at them maybe just to make sure you're alive. Check to see if you can still feel because you're just so numb, frozen under all the hurt. The contusions under your skin stand out against hollow everything—eyes and lips and bones. Blood has never been so dark, looked so red. Skin stretched tight over cheeks and jaw, black and purple around your eyes because on top of not sleeping, you haven't eaten in who knows how long. Sunken in and disgusting. You're sure this is as close to death as you're going to get. That's what you pray for, anyways. Ironic, 'cause you're not religious, even in the slightest.

Back to Dad. Beats you if you look at him sideways. Better just to keep your eyes to yourself and hope like hell he's out courting that whore every time you walk into the house. You would rather starve than put up with him or have him come home when everything is dead and quiet just to knock a couple of your teeth down your throat. If you're lucky—and you never are—he stops there. Doesn't slam you against the floor, pin you down and make you wish he would just kill you already. And you can't ever see because it's always fucking dark. Face always pressed into hardwood or carpet, eyes clamped shut, devoured by something that you still can't call by name. If it has one, that is.

And if it wasn't you, it was Mom. Lovely woman with fine features and eyes that could stop time. She took it with her mouth shut, though, and it was always for your sake. Thought that you'd stop being so scared if she made it look like it hurt less. Brave lady—too bad he killed her. Put her six feet under because he hit her just a little too hard and her neck snapped just a little too wrong. Said she fell down the stairs when the cops showed up and boy did he put on a good show. You almost believed him, but you saw the entire deal. How he shoved her down the stairs after she was dead and told you to keep your fucking mouth shut. Of course you did—you weren't itching to get cut.

Still dream about it, don't you? Still play that night over and over in your head as you hid in the coat closet and watched. Should've jumped in, and you're constantly wishing it was you lying in a pine box instead. Sometimes you wake up in a cold sweat because you swear you just heard your mom call your name, or she smoothed your hair out and told you to stay asleep. That's when your dad stalks in and tells you to quit making so much fucking noise and leaves you with another shiner. What doesn't kill you is going to leave a scar, and you don't know what's worse—being scarred beyond recognition or these things not killing you? You are so ready to be dead.

Especially because you can't turn out the lights without being scared out of your skull. It's not your fault, though. Demons lurk, waiting to slit their way into your mind and eat you from the inside out. Skeletons in your closet? No—you have dead bodies. You have your life, all stripped down and decayed, swinging from hangers and piling up on your floor. Trip over them constantly, let them suffocate you and keep you awake at night because you don't have the guts to face any of them. You don't have it in you to pick them up, fold them and tuck them away neatly. Touching them is like pouring acid on an open wound. And acid eats through everything, so the wound is more like one huge hole, burning and burning until you think you might throw up.

So your insomnia is justified. You're raw.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaim:** I don't own; I borrow with the odd exception.  
**Author's Note:** Flames are welcome. Again, don't read this if mature subject matter bothers you. Read with an open mind. If you see a semblance of a plot, it's unintentional.  
Reviews make me smile.

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**Two| Breathe**

Stiff air, cold hands, nose smashed into the hardwood.

He came home, you ignored him, waiting for him to sink into the couch with a cold one and ignore you right back. But you fumbled, dropped the glass and drew attention to yourself. The last thing you needed was attention, especially from him. That's what you got—a knee to the gut, a swift kick to the ribs, and the heel of his boot crushing your windpipe. Attention in the worst way.

And he got yours when he started talking about Annie. Said he might pick up where she left off. Might start selling you again. And you didn't think about that while he flipped you over, tore the denim off your hips and filled you with all sorts of filth. How could you? Even though his hands were nowhere near your throat, you couldn't breathe. When you tried, he lifted your head up and slammed it into the floor. So you sucked back a mess of your own bile and blood, choking on it because your throat kept closing up.

That's when you shut off. Buried your face into the floor and didn't move, even long after he was finished. Left you there with scratches down you back, teeth imprinted on your neck and shoulder blades. Bleeding. Somehow, you managed to pull yourself together, glossing over what happened. Pretending like he wasn't ever inside you—inside your body and your head—because pretending has always been so much easier than reality.

So much easier than this. Now, with a pair of drawstring sweats around your waist, covering the worst of your wear, things aren't so glossy. You can still feel him moving, grabbing at you, growling your name in your ear. Still shudder under his hot breath, even though it's nowhere near you now. It's with him, in his truck, wherever he's decided to go. You're just glad he's gone, left you here to yourself. But that could be dangerous. Could be fatal.

Especially since it's dead fucking dark out. The windows are black, the glass cold. The glass. The goddamn glass. Sweating, droplets leaving their trails in the pane. A small crack leafing out from the corner is enough to make your hands shake, itching for a way out. That tiny crack could let the darkness in, and then where would you be? Swinging from your ceiling with a rope around your neck. Rhetorical question, but you've answered it anyways.

Tacking the last corner of the bed sheet over your window to the wall, you know you need to leave. You have a cousin in Windrixville, but that's not quite far enough. Maybe you can go to Texas, rodeo there for a bit. Make some money, and then take off to California because that's on the other side of the country. And you reckon that's about as far away from here as you can get.

So now you have your sights set on California. On the warm weather and the beaches. No idea what you'll do over there, but you can't live here anymore. Your insides are beyond rotten, covered in a special sort of decay that comes with living in a place like this with a person like that. The psychological damage is gradually making itself more apparent. Insanity is your best friend.

Sometimes, you want to claw your eyes out. When you shut them, you see a swell of suppressed images flickering on the backs of your eyelids. The disgust makes you sick. You hate yourself. But because you don't know what to do or how to do it, you're stuck. And that gets to you because you're just letting this happen. Day after day, week after week, month after month, and year after year. You put up with it simply because you don't have a choice.

The choices you do make never seem to be the right ones. You chose to keep your mouth shut about Annie; you chose to stay with Mack; you chose everything. Everything except what he does to you. That you can't control. The way he suffocates you and makes you do all these things you don't want to. Kill you from the inside out. And it burns. You'd kill yourself if you weren't already dead.

Dead and dying. Now there's a paradox if you've ever heard one. And people think you're dumb.

On some level, you are. But that's another story for another time. Right now, you're focused on the leak in your bedroom ceiling. Sliding a bucket under the constant drip, you listen to it hit against the plastic, a hollow sound resounding between your ears. You let your eyes slip shut and lose yourself and a swell of panic and nausea, clawing at your arms and twisting the fabric of your pants around. You can feel it—all of it.

But you never scream. You're too busy trying to breathe.


End file.
